


To Escape The Labyrinth of Suffering

by nakymatonlapsi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Substance Abuse, Mind Palace, Sherlock gets lost in his mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:04:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakymatonlapsi/pseuds/nakymatonlapsi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets lost in his mind. John is there, fortunately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Escape The Labyrinth of Suffering

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JennaCupcakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/gifts).



> So, I am intrigued by the idea of Sherlock's Mind Palace. However, I picture him losing himself in his own head between cases, when he is unable to keep his mind occupied. This is what I imagine ensues. 
> 
> For Jenna because she's awesome and she's gonna rock her exam. (She also liked the story.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Obviously. 
> 
> This is messy and not beta'ed and still I'd be happy if you left me feedback of some sort. Enjoy reading!

Narrow, endless hallways, rows upon rows of dark doors. All the exact same dark doors. Each and every single one locked. ‘ _No access_ ’, written in bold letters as if to ridicule him for his inadequacy, his incapacity to open them, to solve their mysteries. No way to go but on, and on and on. Faint whispers, glimpses of pictures, the occasional hint of a smell, snippets colored in bright red and deep blue ring in the stairways of tall, never endingly tall and windowless buildings, find him in empty alleyways or attack him in the middle of gigantic, pompous ballrooms. He wishes he could just cut them off, not let anything distract him from The Task, but he cannot afford to miss anything. Colors are important, lighting is too. So is temperature. Everything could be important. Anything could be crucial in order to hold on to sanity in the darkness of the tangled paths and thousands of crossings and uncountable dead ends.

Sherlock’s mind is like a city, mapped out in strange and complicated and terrifying ways. Constantly changing. Different come nightfall and a new place at dawn. Walls are torn down and build overnight. Whole streets are constructed in the bat of an eyelash. Dynamics change and change and never stop. Barricades are built and taken down. Revolutions are fought and lost and heroes rise and fall without him even noticing. Areas transform from ‘safe’ to ‘dangerous’ in mere seconds. Places disappear in the dark, in the luring nothingness of nonexistence. Not quite forgotten, never tangible nonetheless. What was known territory yesterday can be a minefield today. The Enemy is clever. The Enemy never plays fair. The Enemy is always vigilant and always waiting. Waiting for him to get lost, to get tangled up in a thought, to stumble into one of his carefully set up traps.

Sherlock is exhausted, so exhausted but he can’t be granted even a minute of rest. He has to be on his guard, carry his wit like a gun, a suit of armor, and conjure and deduce, solve and dissolve in every given moment. He knows his allies in this battle, he knows them all too well, vices no less threatening than this but eager to ease the rush, slow down the chase, hide the unnecessary possibilities. Ready to render the edges of this map of change blunt and brighten the streets until there is nothing left but white, bright light around him. Until he can collapse into that light, give up, give in and admit all his weakness in one crushing moment because there cannot be a way The Enemy can see through the bright walls around him – can see him defeated.

Right now, he is far too deep in this labyrinth to reach out to these allies. He has passed this point, the point of no return long ago, pushed past it in a heady and rushed decision, _stupid, bloody stupid, he is too weak, and how could he ever think he was strong enough to fight this battle on his own???_ He is forced to face The Enemy one on one now, except that isn’t true, can never be even remotely true, because The Enemy isn’t one, The Enemy is so much more than him, than anything else. The Enemy is in him, part of him, around him, lurking in the shadows of the streets and basking in the dancing lights of the palaces. Is everything, everywhere. The Enemy cannot be defeated. Worse, The Enemy can’t even be battled. He has already lost and he knows it and he knows that The Enemy knows. He can feel the mocking, the pitiful scorn that still chases him along these paths and will never ever stop, even though he will admit his defeat and surrender, even though he already has, because The Enemy is cruelty itself and he will never let him rest ever again and Sherlock will be running through the depts of his own mind forever and ... _oh_.

 _Never give up a battle that isn’t fought yet._ There is something here that makes Sherlock turn abruptly. Not a solid thought exactly, nor a real sensation but something that is faintly like the feeling of tea on his tongue but not quite a taste and there’s also a hint of something else, something so achingly familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it and he can’t make out where to search for it. Nevertheless he knows it’s his one and only chance and he knows that he is good at this because he has done this a million times before, he lives for the puzzle and the mystery and the _game_ and it’s muscle memory and instinct and he couldn’t not be brilliant at this and so he sets of blindly, trusting his mind and muscle to lead him, to lead him closer to this memory, this small little precious thing that he only now, only in this state of pure instinct and oversensitivity and absolute concentration recognizes as _home_. This thing, which grows stronger and more distinct the more Sherlock can pinpoint it to the feeling of home, to tea and armchairs and takeaway and … John.

_John, of course John, always John, how could he ever, even for the glimpse of a second, forget about John?_

John with his hideous jumpers, John with his frequent tea making. John with his blog, his ridiculously slow typing seated in his armchair on a quiet night, his steady breathing, his upright posture and his calm voice. His praise, his ‘Sherlock’ that has so many different meanings and he can identify all of them out of all the voices and noises in the world. John and his steady figure pressed close to Sherlock, gun drawn, waiting for danger to invite them to dance again. John running, chasing next to Sherlock after some furious madman. John, stitching him up after a case gone wrong, an experiment turned ‘a bit not good’.

_Doctor John, Soldier John, Flatmate John. His Friend John._

He concentrates on that though, lets it in in all the clarity and honesty he can manage. Lets it consume him wholly. He needs John, he need to find his way to John, _where the hell_ _is John?_ Could he make sounds in this place, he would scream in frustration but he is not entitled to that privilege here and so it is a constant scream on the inside and in his thoughts a constant _‘JOHN’_ blurs out all the distractions, and ruses and wrong deductions prying on him and suddenly the thing, the thought, the memory, _the feeling?_ is visible and tangible, a thread woven for him to escape this place of suffering and humiliation and loss of control, a red thread for him, a guide line, an anchor in the real world, exactly like John is in his life. Because he can be the brilliant half-god, inhuman and detached, but only with John’s steady presence to balance him, to guide him, to hold him in place. Everybody always assumes John orbits around Sherlock, is so dependent on him and so lost without his brilliance but they’re all idiots. _Sherlock_ orbits around John, only safe enough to cross all the lines to new levels of genius while being firmly anchored, gravitated by John and by his warmth.

_How did they come so far in mere months?_

Sherlock grabs the fine but persistent red garn, small and seemingly ordinary but oh so impossibly important, _just like John_ , and he follows it through all of the dark and narrow hallways, passing the black doors, thorough the stairways and along the alleys, over every crossing and not once hitting a dead end. There is a feeble voice now, too, saying _‘Sherlock’_ and _‘Sherlock’_ all over and it sounds real and close and worried and so john and it makes his heart – the one that’s supposed to not exist- ache and he lets himself float along the threat, lets himself be pulled out of the labyrinth of his mind by soft words and unafraid hands (on his forearms, he realized as he submerges) and with one final, urgent, determined _‘Sherlock?’_ ringing in his ear he crosses the border and he’s back again, in the real world.

It takes him a minute to adjust to the colors and the unnerving _steadiness_ of it all but when he does he realizes he’s lying on the couch in his dressing gown and John is perched over him and holds his arms in his warm hands and looks at him and says his name over and over again. Sherlock registers he’s shaking violently and as he licks his lips he tastes tears, and blood. He opens his mouth to speak, to appease John, to reassure him he’s fine, but the sound he makes is alien and only faintly resembles John’s name. John understands it anyway.

_‘It’s okay Sherlock. It’s all fine. I’m here.’_

John’s hand moves into Sherlock’s hair as if it belongs there and maybe it does, because his soothing motions cause Sherlock to stop shaking and maybe to stop crying as well and he grabs Johns other hand firmly in both of his before he allows his eyes to slip shut and his energy reserves, _his battle forces_ , to be restored and renewed. All the while, John’s hands never leave him.

**Author's Note:**

> (Yes, the title is a reference to John Green's 'Looking for Alaska'.)


End file.
